


Shattered Seasons

by Hattingmad



Category: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland & Related Fandoms, Original Work
Genre: Character with PTSD, Dark Fantasy, F/M, Multi, buckle up kids this gon be good, immortal god-monsters, references to past abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-06-07 14:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6808939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hattingmad/pseuds/Hattingmad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The months are at war, and all Alys wants is to punch January right in his smug face. He stole her real name and won't give it back, and now she's stuck in the realm of seasons as the center of attention for immortal god-monsters.  She's just evicted a dangerous sociopath from her life and her heart, but she has no time to heal as Autumn cavalierly romps through her worst memories for sport. And with a war brewing right outside her door, suddenly, hitting January doesn't seem like such a high priority anymore. </p>
<p>January may not have entirely thought this whole 'kidnapping a mortal' thing through.  There's ice in her soul, and she certainly belongs to Winter if she belongs anywhere.  This can only be a good thing, since that blasted boy scout Summer has grown so strong that the mortal world is now careening toward global meltdown.  But with December making dangerous deals for assistance with a spectral legion, one human can't distract the other months and keep attention off her forever.  Now, even January's scheming may not be enough to prevent winter's annihilation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wanted:Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Very loosely inspired by the idea of Wonderland, and what happens once you're there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 1 revised again

Taylor’s Evil Ex is stalling. Of course he is. Anything to make this god-awful scene even more painful. The air conditioning in the airport is broken, and there are hundreds of disgruntled, tired travelers in soggy t-shirts perfuming the airport’s check-in counters with flop-sweat and despair. Taylor looks around to avoid looking at him, but there isn’t much to see. Just bland beige walls, scuffed and dirty gray carpet, and lots of people standing in interminable lines, leaning on their luggage for support. The airport counter staff curl their shoulders in on themselves protectively, bracing for the inevitable angry explosions sure to be directed their way by testy passengers who see them only as receptacles for their ire, representatives of everything evil about commercial travel. Taylor recognizes the way the employees try to make themselves smaller, the beaten expressions on their faces, and she has to make a conscious effort not to mimic them. She won’t show weakness in front of this man. Not anymore. 

“I’m broke,” Evil Ex says, “and I’m not leaving without my stuff.” He kicks at his suitcase with one foot, clearly trying to make this state of affairs her problem.

You had the money to fly here and put yourself up in an Extended Stay for a week, she thinks sourly, but there’s no point in voicing it. Not showing weakness is one thing; poking the bear for no gain is quite another. “Can’t one of your other girls spot you the money? I’m not exactly loaded.” As you bloody well know, she adds, silently.

“And whose fault is that? You were making plenty when you were with me.”

“No,  _ you  _ were making plenty, pimping us out.” Taylor forces the words out, speaking fast, like if she gets them out fast enough they won’t actually touch her, won’t actually be real. “I’m never going back to that,” she adds, because she has to say it, and because she needs him to hear it, even if he won’t believe her. Maybe if she’d been stronger, more forceful in her denials when they met, she’d--no. She can’t relive that now. Not here. Not in front of him. Her stomach roils at the thought.  Solve the problem at hand, she tells herself, and work from there. Taylor reaches into her purse, and her fingers touch disturbingly damp leather. It’s almost slimy. Ew, is her purse starting to sweat? Can that happen? Her irritability rises rapidly as she looks into her wallet and counts out three twenty-dollar bills. There goes the rest of her cash. She groans, waging a brief internal struggle before shoving the bills at him.

“You know what? Fine. Here. I’ll pay your stupid luggage fees. Okay? Happy now?” She moves toward the check-in desk, hoping he’ll follow.

“You won’t hear from me again,” Evil Ex warns her. “You won’t be able to forget me. You’ll spend your entire life thinking about me.” 

That might be true. You don’t tend to forget the shitstain who ruined your life, Taylor thinks. But all she says is, “just  _ leave _ .” Her voice cracks, and he laughs at her outward showing of pain. His eyes narrow, and he stares Taylor down for a long moment, until she starts to panic, wondering if he won’t let her go after all, wondering if, despite her best efforts to be dull and boring, he still wants to toy with her. But finally, his interest appears to wane, and he turns and retreats, until his figure is swallowed up by the crowd.

 

“It’s over,” she says out loud, trying out the words. “It’s done. He’s gone.” She presses the back of her hand to her mouth and sighs, blinking back the angry tears trying to leak out of her eyes. It’s fine. Everything is fine. All she has to do is turn around and go--

“Ow!” Did someone seriously just step on her foot? It’s fine, she tells herself, you’re just a brain on a stick. Does it really matter what happens to the stick _?_ But it’s too late. Her anger has found its outlet and she’s already opening her mouth.

“Watch where you’re going,” she snaps, looking up at the offender.

He’s a tall man in a bespoke gray suit, with long platinum blonde hair pulled back at the nape of his neck.  And wow, he’s gorgeous, with cheekbones you could cut yourself on, but there’s something sharp and cold about his features if she looks too long, like a superimposed image.  Also, is he seriously carrying a walking stick?  Are those even legal in airports anymore? 

He stares at her mutely, and Taylor finds herself opening her big mouth again to complain  _ more,  _ because she obviously hasn’t gotten enough abuse yet today _. _

“Typically, when you hurt someone, you apologize. It’s polite.” She stresses the word ‘polite’, imbuing it with acid.

The man turns his head left and right, looking around the lobby before turning back to her.

His brow furrows, and his fingers tighten around his walking stick.

“Are you speaking to me?” He points to himself, presumably for emphasis.

“No, I’m talking to the dancing bear behind you. Of course I’m speaking to you.”

“You can see me.” The man sounds baffled by his own words.

“Yeah, actually, you’re pretty hard to miss.” Taylor can’t seem to stop with the sarcasm, now that she’s started.

The man’s eyes light up, like he just made an internal connection, and he says, “oh, I see now. You’re a Prime. Whose, I wonder?” And then he really looks at her for the first time since she stopped him.

She looks back, and for a moment she’s somewhere else, back in the hotel room months ago and half a world away,  _ scrubbing her skin red and raw in the shower, as hard as she can, but the feeling of rot clinging to her goes down further than she can reach, and she has to keep her head out of the water or she’ll have to put on her makeup again before the next “client” comes in and anyway she has to get out and change the sheets… _

The moment passes and the guy smiles.  It’s unsettling, and more than anything, she gets the impression of lots of  _ teeth _ .

“You’re one of ours,” he says in wonder, his expression softening. “You have to be.  I wasn't sure I'd ever see one again.” There’s an odd wistful longing in his voice, and for a moment, Taylor’s hurts along with him, feeling like she just witnessed something she shouldn’t have, like he made himself vulnerable somehow.

Then, she decides it isn’t that important to figure out what the crazy guy is talking about.  Empathy is overrated in this instance. Her foot still hurts. He can just go fuck himself.

“Sure. Absolutely.  Whatever you say.” She hopes she’s properly mimicking the placating tones the nurses used on her in the mental health ward. “You know what? Just forget the apology. I’m good. See you around.”

Taylor starts to turn her back on him, but before she can, he grabs her wrist in a vice so tight she winces.  In the same breath, he cracks the end of his walking stick against the tile, hard.

And that’s when the floor falls away.


	2. This Sucks Balls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO HEAVILY REVISED TO SUCK LESS.
> 
> AGAIN.

Maybe it would be more accurate to say that the floor of the airport shatters, and she falls between the cracks, but either way she’s falling, and everything is dark and where is he, anyway? If she’s going to fall to her death, at the very least he could have the decency to die with her.

She’s still falling. Exactly how big a hole did he blow in the ground? There’s no way she’ll survive a fall like this without breaking her neck, and she’s going to die alone. No, actually, screw that noise. No way he’s getting off that easily.

“I’LL HAUNT YOU FOREVER, YOU PSYCHOTIC FREAK!”

That’s better. 

Taylor closes her eyes tight and prays for a quick death. She regrets that practicing one last act of kindness for Evil Ex is getting her killed, but it figures, really. Nothing in her life has gone right since she met him, and now she’s being forced into some murder-suicide pact at the airport.

There’s light coming from between her squeezed-shut eyelids. Maybe it’s the light at the end of the tunnel, signaling the oncoming train? Has she already died and not realized it?

And then she hears a rustling sound around her, and it feels like someone kicked her in the kidneys and then caned the backs of her arms, and there are things touching her bare skin. She feels the oppressive heat of late summer dissipate into a cool, crisp breeze, so she slowly opens her eyes.

There’s sky above her, cloudy and blue. She isn’t moving anymore, and there are branches to her left and right with brittle browning leaves attached, some of which are stuck on her clothes and hair.

Is she in a tree? A tree that thinks it’s autumn, apparently. But she’s not dead, and that’s the most important thing here. Tentatively, she looks down. Yep, she’s stuck in a tree. A nice big oak, maybe, and further away there are flowerbeds and topiary and a big honking fountain, and past that, there’s a stone archway and a small path leading to this enormous manor house. It’s also made of stone, with hanging vines covering some of the walls, parapets up by the roof, and too many gothic windows, like Tim Burton designed Pemberly. 

Right, she thinks. Based on those cues, she’s either going to meet a genteel, yet insensitive Englishman who will take pity on her poor fortunes and court her, or she’s about to be involved in a zany but ultimately tragic love story with a highly improbable character who isn’t, strictly speaking, alive. Possibly both.

“Oh, blast. I undershot us. Still, there are worse places I could have landed.” 

Oh. Or it’s this asshole again. Taylor recognizes that voice. It’s the crazy guy, and she takes a moment to regret that he also survived the fall. 

“I didn’t lose her, did I? Oh, there you are! Do get down from there. This is no time for a nap. We aren’t in my territory.”

Taylor growls in his general direction as another splinter embeds itself into her palm.

“Don’t blame me,” Mr. Tall-Blonde-and-Creepy says, misinterpreting her anger. “My miscalculation was due to a lack of power, not a lack of precision. And my lacking power is entirely June’s fault. So blame him, if you’re in the mood. I can’t imagine that will be too difficult for you, what with all the ice in your soul.”

“What the hell does any of that mean, Lucius?” Taylor asks, inching her way onto a sturdy branch. She wraps her arms around the wood and pokes her head down to stare at him.

“Did you just call me Lucius?” He sounds offended, and she grins.

“Uh, yeah? It’s all the Fabio hair,” she explains. “I mean, that and the walking stick, and also you just really kinda strike me as a Slytherin. Not that I’d judge; I’ve been Slytherin on Pottermore since day one, you know, back when that mattered on Pottermore, so--”

“Cease spouting nonsense this instant. I am not Lucius or Fabio or Slither-in,” he snaps. “I am January. Lord January to you,” he adds, like that should explain everything.

“How nice for you,” Taylor says, eyeing the distance to the ground from her perch. “I’m sorry your parents weren’t very creative.”

“You cannot possibly be this dense. The question of my parentage would imply I was human, which I certainly am not. I am January,” he says again, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Like the first month of the year?”

“Not ‘like’, am.” Taylor cocks her head to the side, thinking about it.

“I will allow that as a non-zero possibility, given that we were in O’Hare not five minutes ago. But first off, you earn respect, you don’t get it just because you say so. And second, I could say I’m the Queen of England. Doesn’t make it true.”

January stares up at her for a moment before smiling in that feral, toothy way she’d seen earlier.

“Now I know you’re one of ours.”

“And that’s thing number three! What’s a Prime and who is ‘us’?”

“Winter, of course,” January says, looking at her like she’s simple-minded. “You belong with Winter.” He examines his fingernails. “And as for Primes, they’re simply humans born on the first day of a month. When my fellow months and I walk in your world, Primes can see us, even if we aren’t making ourselves visible deliberately.”

“Eugh. Could you not with the special snowflake crap?” Taylor groans, making a face.

“Don’t flatter yourself. You have a one in 30 chance of being a Prime. It isn’t that special. Your affinity with Winter, on the other hand, is much rarer.” 

“Stop talking, you’re making it worse,” she pleads with him.

January cocks his head. “Come to think of it, you need a name if you’re to stay, don’t you?”

“I’ve already got one. It’s-”

“Alys, while you’re here, and it will be until you become something else.”

“You can’t just rename someone because you feel like it! Are you insane?”

January, as collected as ever, says “I think you’ll find that I both can and did.”

 

She takes stock of herself. Nothing has changed. She still looks the same, feels the same, thinks the same, and her name is...Alys? She stares at January, horrified, as she realizes that the suggestion has become so instantly, firmly rooted in her head that she can’t remember her real name. Even though she’s had it her whole life. Even though she was just about to say it. Even though it begins with a...with a… She can feel her mind sliding away from the name every time she tries to think of it, like trying to scrabble up a slippery wall with no handholds. She thinks she almost has it and then boom, total blank, instantly followed up by Your name is Alys, it’s Alys. She feels herself going cross-eyed with the effort it takes just to remember she had a different name a minute ago, and the bile rises in her throat.

 

Someone is in her head again, and it’s not fair, it’s not fair, she just pushed Evil Ex out of there and she had to fight so hard to stay sane when she was with him, and now this? She can feel herself spiraling out of control, and she hates it.

 

“What did you do,” the girl who is now Alys chokes out.

“I gifted you with a lovely new name. I’m sure it’s much better than whatever you had before.”

“Give it back,” she growls at him. “Get out of my head and give it back right now.”

January frowns. “I don’t think I like it when you talk anymore. Hush.” He opens his hand, palm-up, and blows on it.

And then there’s cold on her face and on her cheeks and in her mouth and on her tongue and it welds her lips together. Alys claws at her mouth with her nails, but all she touches is slippery ice. Her body is not her own, her mind has been invaded, and she slips from the branch of the tree. She falls to the ground, her violated mind racing, and lands in a patch of...snow? On one hand, it broke her fall, so that’s nice. On the other, she’s now in the awkward position of scooping snow out of her cleavage.

 

Alys lays on the ground in the snow, pushing her emotions as far away from her as she can. If she doesn’t feel, she can’t care. If she doesn’t care, nothing can hurt her. If nothing can hurt her, everything is fine. That’s right. She’s fine. She’s going to fix this, get her real name back, and everything is fine.

“Are you quite done with your little performance?” January asks, impatient.

 

Alys points to her sealed mouth in reply.

 

“Good. We should leave before September--”

“Before I what, exactly?” A new voice reaches Alys’ ears. She turns slowly.

 

The individual stalking purposefully across the lawn reminds Alys somewhat of a favorite professor: a calming influence, bespectacled and slightly rumpled-looking at all times, young enough for students to pin their romantic hopes upon him and old enough to know better. She would feel charitable toward him for that alone, even without the breeze drifting toward her at his approach, now smelling of libraries and leather armchairs, annotations and aftershave. The familiar scent soothes her in this strange place. 

 

“I thought I sensed Winter magic on my lawn” the entity rumbles, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves as he prepares to lecture January. His gaze then catches on Alys, who lifts a hand to wave in his direction.

September’s dark eyes behind his glasses sharpen and his breath catches, arrested. Then his gazes softens, and he clears his throat.

“A mortal? How did you find your way to us, my dear? We haven’t had a mortal in this realm in… I can’t even think how long!” .

Quick as anything, January gestures in her direction and the piercing cold dissipates from her mouth. She bites her lower lip, just to make sure she can move it again.

“That really isn’t--” January hedges.

“He kidnapped me,” Alys volunteers bluntly, feeling zero loyalty toward the man who took her name and silenced her.

“She was taken against her will?” September shoots a very meaningful glance at January.

“That’s neither here nor there.” January looks down his nose at September, who folds his arms in front of his chest.

“Oh? Is that so? Then why were you in such a hurry to remove her from Autumn’s domain?” “She’s one of mine,” January states, but his fingers are white-knuckling the head of his walking stick.

“I beg to differ,” September says, smiling. “Isn’t it far more likely she’s ours, and you’re stealing her? When was the last time any mortal was truly one of Winter’s, hm? And besides--she’s exactly to my tastes.” January lifts his cane from the ground. 

Alys decides now would be a great time to speak up, before the two of them come to blows or something equally awful.

“Excuse me? September? What do you mean by that?”

September turns to her, any wrinkles in his expression or odd glimmer in his eyes wiped clean as he addresses her politely. . 

“Merely that you seem like a bright young lady, my dear. I do apologize on behalf of my colleague for your treatment up until now. Why don’t we go inside, and I’ll make some tea, and make some sense of his nonsense if I’m able?” He indicates the manor with his outstretched arm. “Ladies first.”

“Thank you,” Alys says, favoring him with a smile. “I’d appreciate that.”.

“That’s hardly necessary,” January says quickly, “seeing as she’s my responsibility. I’ll just take her off your hands before she causes any trouble.”

“Not at all,” September replies, and there’s steel behind his genteel voice. “She’s my guest now. I insist.”

As they enter the manor house, Alys hears, ever so faintly, January saying something that sounds like “oh, hell”.


	3. Arsenic and Earl Gray

Settled in an overstuffed armchair, holding a mug of strong, sweet black tea, Alys feels slightly more human.  She bunches the fuzzy brown blanket up on her lap, sipping slowly.  September perches on the arm of another chair, expression open and inviting.

“You look like you’ve had one of those days, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“You could say that again.”  She picks at a thread on the blanket.

“Do you want to talk about it?  I have it on the best authority that I’m a good listener.” 

“Oh, no, that’s alright.  I just… wasn’t expecting to trade one nightmare for another today.  And then your friend January-”

“Friend might be pushing it,” September interjects.

“Right, well, he stepped on my foot in the airport, and then he got weird and said I was his Prime and grabbed me, and now I’m here, wherever that is, and he’s some kind of … winter spirit?  He’s a season, or something?  And I can’t remember my own  _ name,  _ now, and my mind is the only thing I have left.  And I, um… I don’t really know why I’m telling you this, since I’m sure you’re some kind of horrific god-monster, too.  Sorry.  Thanks for the tea?”

September has that torn expression on his face again, like he’s halfway between gob-smacked and amusement.  His eyes are wide behind his glasses.

“My dear,” he begins, and then stops, shaking his head.  “I’m sorry, I’m so rarely at a loss for words, but this is unprecedented, as far I know.”  He busies himself rubbing the lens of his glasses on his sleeve.

“I must say, you seem to be distinctly less bothered than you have a right to be,” he offers, lamely.

“This isn’t even the first time I’ve been kidnapped  _ this year.   _ Maybe I can get out in one piece this time.”  She shrugs.

“This year?”

“That’s what I said. It happened twice in the same day, even. Gotta say, abduction’s really starting to lose its appeal at this point.  Not so new and exciting when you’ve been there, done that.  Although the whole X-Men twist this time round is novel, I’ll give it that.”  She laces her fingers together and smiles politely, cocking her head at him.  “I apologize.  You were saying?”

“Ah, I suppose I did say I was going to explain things, didn’t I?  You’re not entirely wrong, what you said about January.  He isn’t a season, though.  He’s just a month.  Technically,  _ I’m  _ the representative of a season -- Autumn, specifically -- in addition to being September.  As for where you are, well, this is the realm of seasons.  And as for rules… I’m not entirely sure there are any, where you’re concerned.”  September lifts his hands apologetically.  “It’s been so long since any mortals set foot in this realm that any codes of conduct have long since been forgotten, I should think.  And that’s beside the point, at any rate.  You were brought here by force, you didn’t choose to come, so I doubt any rules could bind you now.  Unless you  _ did  _ subconsciously wish to be here?”

“I don’t think so.  I may have thought earlier that I’d rather be ‘anywhere but here’, but that’s not exactly consent to kidnapping, is it?”

September frowns. “I’m not sure.”

“Let’s hope not. Oh, can you fix whatever he did to my brain?  It’s really creeping me out.”

September, to his credit, looks chagrined.

“I’m afraid not.  What one of us does, the others cannot undo.  And in case you were thinking of going home, January anchored you here by naming you. I’m afraid you can’t leave except in the company of one of the months, and if you tried to stay in the mortal world after that, there’s really no telling what would happen.  You might just bounce back here, you might cease to exist.  I honestly don’t know.”

“That’s fine.  I don’t need to go back soon.”   _ Or ever, really _ .  Alys drains the rest of the tea.  “Thanks for the hospitality, but I shouldn’t impose.  I’ll just find January and try to make him undo it, I suppose.”

“I refuse!”  A snide voice from seemingly nowhere promptly states.  The voice is unmistakably January, however.

“Eavesdropping is a very nasty habit,” September says mildly.

Alys stands, chasing the voice, but immediately wobbles, unsteady on her feet.  September crosses the room in a blink, catching her by the shoulders and lowering her back gently into the armchair.  She freezes, her shoulders stiffening at the contact even as the rest of her body relaxes unnaturally.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” she mumbles, feeling her eyes start to close.

“It’s alright.” September presses down on her shoulders as she sags into the chair.  “It’s the crossing that’s tired you, I’m sure.  Rest.”

“Can’t. I have to-”

“I’ll be right here, keeping watch.  I promise.”

As she slips out of consciousness, she thinks she hears that disembodied January-voice, but it’s too faint to tell what he’s saying, and then there’s nothing, and she thinks nothing at all.

* * *

 

“Really, September?  Drugging the tea already?  I didn’t think you were  _ that _ impatient to get inside her head.”

“I’m sure I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”  September gives a disdainful sniff.

“Of course not.”  The January-voice hesitates.  “Try not to damage anything while you’re in there.”

“Your concern for the girl is touching, January.”

“Hardly.”  The voice sounds faintly offended.

“Don’t worry.  I’ll be careful.  Aren’t I always?”

Silence.  September chuckles softly.  Time to work.


	4. What Dreams May Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major revision to this chapter, since it sucked the most.

Alys blinks, disoriented as she stares up at September, the room around him seeming to blur in and out of focus. She tries to move, and she finds that she can’t, but the panic she should feel at that realization is wicked away as soon as it arrives. 

“I'm sorry, what were we talking about again?” Her head feels full of bees and it's hard to think.

“You were telling me about yourself, my dear. You were just saying how you felt you could trust me with the truth. I’m flattered, by the way.”

“I was?” She echoes, confused. She said she could trust him? Why does that feel wrong? 

Her head throbs and a voice echoes in her head, unbidden:  _ “Wouldn’t it be funny if I pushed you off the top of this building?  Hey, don’t pull your fingers back from me like that. You’ll break them, and then won’t you feel stupid.” _

Alys knows this voice, and she doesn’t want to remember.

September sits up straighter in his chair, and his eyes gleam behind his glasses. He’s carrying on the conversation without her input, and she tunes back in to hear him say, “--you’re afraid of heights?”

“No,” she says, indistinctly, her own voice muffled in her ears. “Not heights. Falling. Being pushed.”

Her head hurts again. This time she hears:  _ “You wouldn’t even know what abuse is.  She doesn’t think she’s being abused, does she? Hey, you, I’m talking to you.  Look up. See? I just slapped you across the face and you don’t feel abused. Right?” _

Alys’s cheek stings from the memory. 

September leans forward in his chair, eyes alight.

“I’m talking to you,” he says, slow, deliberate, and Alys gasps in pain  as Evil Ex’s voice comes at her again:  _ “Would you die for me? Would you let me kill you? Why, because I want to, that’s why, or for money, or because I said so. No? Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re nothing but a failed experiment. You think you’re so smart, what proof do you have? Of what worth or value are you to me? You’re nothing.”  _

She tries to focus on the conversation at hand, the real one September’s trying to have with her. But she can’t, and she sits paralyzed on the chair, hot, humiliated tears starting to slide down her cheeks.

Alys feels dizzy and disoriented, and she closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, September’s crouching in front of her, burning in a hole in her with his gaze, and his glasses are off, and his eyes are bottomless pits, and she sees… she doesn’t  _ want  _ to see, but she does, she does, and he’s  _ laughin _ g.

“Oh  _ my _ , you  _ are  _ a broken little doll, aren't you? Why, this is hell, nor are we out of it--”

He closes his eyes in rapture.

“I see clumsy, sticky human fingers all over that mind of yours.” He moans. 

“You were one of many. You had to fight for every scrap of attention you got--oh, but he didn't really care about you, did he? Only about how much money you could bring in, after he 'took your innocence'. Abandoned, threatened with death, worthless stupid ignorant frigid incompetent  _ sorry little whore.  _ I could feast on you for ages.” A shudder rolls through him. 

“I want your pain,” September says, and it makes her shiver. “I want your pain, to dig in and feast on it with tooth and fang and claw and suck the marrow from the spine and savor the fear. I want your medulla oblongata to your fucking pinky toe. Every time you wanted to cry but didn't, every small hurt you hold close to your chest and coddle like a puppy, every bleeding wound; I’ll dig fingers in and push the dirt and salt in until it never ever heals but with me inside it.” 

He’s practically panting, breathy little gasps coming from him as he talks, like it’s something intimate, sexual. And all the while, Alys feels it all, like it’s the first time it happened, the agony twisting her up and spitting her out, used gum on the bottom of his shoe. 

“I want it all, I want your delicious suffering, everything that makes you awful and petty and small, and I will have it and taste it and it will subsume you. I will bathe in it, drink it, swim in it, because I CAN, because you're human and small and stupid and because it feels so damn good to revel in your hurts, because no one can stop me.” 

She can’t move her head, can’t tear herself away from those fathomless eyes, but she thinks he might just be touching himself. 

“I’m heady and drunk on it, on your pain, it could sustain me for ages, there's so much of it. Just layers and layers, and every hurt, every lie, every scream and shriek, I want it. Give it to me. Let me coat myself in it and live in your skin. Never get enough, give me  _ everything…” _

“Why,” she chokes out, and he smiles and shrugs, unhinged utter lunacy, a knife-wielding madness in his eyes behind his professor glasses and his stupid tweed suit.

“Everyone needs a hobby.”


	5. Oberon

“Ugh. Please stop playing with your...food, in the living room. It’s vulgar.”

There’s a new voice, and it breaks through the mental hell paralyzing her mind and body. Alys struggles desperately to break out of September’s hold on her, expending all her remaining strength to rock violently forward on her chair. As she tips over, September lunges out of the way, not quite fast enough, and she ends up knocking skulls with him before landing face-first on the rug, the chair atop her sprawled body, with a wicked case of carpet burn on her cheeks. But she isn’t looking at him anymore, and his power over her dissipates with the loss of his gaze. 

“She’s still alive,” The newcomer says, surprise in his voice.

“Yes,” September responds, sounding pained-- _ good _ , Alys thinks. “I can see that.”

“Mrrow?” The sound is so out-of-place that Alys forces herself to move, turning her head with a herculean effort. She is confronted by the sight of an enormous black cat tilting its leonine face at her. “Mrr?” The cat taps a paw against her lips, presumably to check if its intended prey is still breathing.

“ ‘m not roadkill. You can’t eat me, kitty. Shoo.” The cat pulls its paw back, twitching its whiskers at her.

“Oberon, it’s rude to stare.” The cat responds to this reprimand by shoving its furry head into her face.

“Ew, kitty breath,” she says automatically, before blinking in surprise. “...paper breath?” Sure enough, there’s a scrap of paper dangling from a corner of the cat’s mouth.

“Damn it all, October,” September complains. “You interrupted me  _ and  _ your idiot cat was chewing on my books again.”

The cat turns and hisses in September’s direction, fur spiky and back arched, before returning to its task of bothering Alys. She gets another insistent faceful of kitty fur. The cat rubs against her vigorously, purring. She wonders if it’s trying to encourage her.

“Alright, alright, I’ll get up,” she says, gingerly crawling out from underneath the chair. Fuck, her back hurts.

“Need a hand?” An arm is stuck in her face, and she gratefully accepts, letting herself be hauled to her feet. The man doing the hauling seems to have miscalculated somewhat, as she’s yanked upward so rapidly that her shoulder screeches in its socket. Talk about not knowing his own strength, she thinks.

“Thanks. October, wasn’t it?” The man nods. Oberon the cat winds around his legs, and he picks him up, popping the cat onto his shoulder. 

“You named the cat Oberon?” She pointedly ignores September, who is still sitting on the floor, not-so-subtly moving so that October is positioned between them. 

“Of course I didn’t.  He named himself.” 

“Let me guess.  He eats Shakespeare?”

October’s lips twitch.

“However did you know?”  The cat puts a paw on his cheek and starts batting at him.  “Yes, yes, I’m going.  Well, of course I don’t want him to swat us with the broom.  You’re so impatient!”  

“I’ll go, too!” Alys says, too quickly. Not turning to look back, she adds,  “and if you  _ ever  _ so much as  _ look  _ at me again, I’ll feed you through a woodchipper, balls-first.”

She tries to run after October, but her legs don’t want to support her weight, and she feels herself tottering unsteadily forward. 

The cat takes a flying leap off October’s shoulder and lands on Alys, draping itself protectively around her neck, a furry stole. The quiet, rumbling purr against her nape gives her the strength to stay standing.

October looks backward, glaring at the cat in a wounded fashion. 

“What’s the matter, Oberon? Don’t you want our mid-afternoon nap?”

Oberon responds by stretching a paw out, extending and retracting his claws in mid-air. 

“I am  _ not  _ judging where you choose to sleep!” October protests, and the cat trills at him. 

“Fine, I don’t care anymore, let’s just  _ go  _ before he gets back up.” And with that pronouncement, October abruptly scoops Alys up into his arms, princess-style, Oberon and all, and strides quickly away.

“I hope you like horror movies, darling,” September calls from the study, chuckling at his own joke.

“Uh…?” Alys hates horror movies. It’s all those jump scares.

“Ass,” October says under his breath, and keeps walking.

It isn’t until they reach a bedroom that October speaks again. 

“Oberon sleeps wherever he wishes. Right now, that’s on you. So be good, lay on that couch, and don’t move, or I’ll snap your neck to keep you still. He won’t like that, since you won’t be as warm, and I’ll have to hear about it for years. Don’t make me do that. Got it? Blink once for yes.”

Alys blinks.

“Good.”

October deposits her on a couch, positioning her like a ball-jointed doll, just so, before draping a blanket over her prone form. Oberon slinks down from her neck to her stomach and kneads dough.

“You can move when he’s done napping, and not a moment before.”

The cat yawns, theatrically, curls into a ball, and closes its eyes. 

And, because there’s nothing else she can do, and the blanket and cat are warm, and she prefers bodily threats to mental ones anyway, Alys let out a breath, and decides to follow suit.


	6. Problematic Napping and other Hazards

She can't sleep now, thanks to the cat batting at her toes from the foot of the couch. Also, she really has a leg cramp. Seems like she had a decently long forced-nap, if the lack of light outside the window is any indication. Alys is pretty sure that Oberon attacking the cover monster that is her foot counts as ‘moving’, so she’s fairly certain she can get up as well, but she can’t say she’s 100% sure.

“Hey, buddy,” she says softly, and Oberon cocks his head at her. 

“Do you know where your daddy is?” He just blinks at her sleepily, and she thinks, well, duh. He’s a cat. What was she expecting?

“Alright, up you get. Let’s go find him. You can be my alibi so he doesn’t kill me, ok?”

Alys scoops Oberon into her arms, draping his front paws over her shoulder. The cat digs his claws in and chews on her hair, content. His breath smells like parchment. 

"Right. I’m just gonna follow the trail of paper scraps down this hallway here. I’m guessing you’ve been here before? Buddy?” The trail leads to what Alys assumes is the library. The door is open a crack, warm light spilling out. She puts the cat down on the floor and pushes the door open as she announces, "October? Oberon was done napping, and, uh, more into ‘mauling’, so I got up. Did you want him back, or...?" 

The figure sitting by the fire stands and turns toward her, and suddenly she can't breathe, can't move, can't think beyond a panicked shrilling alarm in her mind that lets itself out in a whimpered, "it can't be".

"What is it?" The figure cocks its head at her. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"The...the cat," she whispers, by way of explanation.

"What cat?" She glances around the room, frantic now. The cat is gone. Assuming there ever  _ was  _ a cat, assuming all of this wasn’t a hallucination she concocted to keep herself from jumping off the first bridge she saw. What if she never got away?

The figure steps toward her, into the light, and she retreats, stumbling backward into a bookshelf.

She'll kill herself, she resolves. She'll die rather than go back. It's been a short life. Maybe shorter than she would have liked. But with him watching her, having her watched, all the time, how can she--

"Alys?" He reaches out for her and she flinches away, but through the muddle of fear she thinks, wait. This can't be who she thinks it is.  He never knew that name, the one January gave her in place of the one he stole.

"O-October? Is it you?"

"Of course it's me. Who else would I be?"

"But you--ah, you look like--like--"

He creases his brow, confused. "Mm? Ah. Sorry about that. September didn’t mention my nightmare form before he went for the brain sucky-suck?"

"You could say that. Yes. You could definitely say that."

"Ah. Well... surprise?" He shrugs, already losing interest in the conversation and in her. As an afterthought, he adds, "what do I look like to you, anyway? Big hairy spider? Cthulhian horror? Evil clown?"

"No. You look human."

"Bo~ring~. What's so frightening about a human?"

She forces a laugh.

"I'm sure you're right." 

Slowly, like he had to think about it and still has to drag the words out, he says, "it's alright, you know. I'm not. Whoever I look like, I'm not. Come morning, I won't look like this."

"Yeah. Thanks." He nods stiffly, turning back to his chair and his reading.

“By the way, you can use the couch for the night. No death threats this time,” he adds, and seeing such a harmless, mirthful expression on Evil Ex’s face makes Alys feel like she stepped right into crazytown. “September know better than to touch my shit, so you’ll be fine. I’m guessing you’ll wanna hunt January down in the morning.”

“Oh, definitely. Staying here might be a little…”

October nods, serene.

“If you find him, kick him in the nads for me,” he says, cheerful.

Alys even finds it in herself to laugh.

“Will do!”

The wayward Oberon twines around her ankles, purring, as she steps back into the hall. "Alright, little stinker," she says, sighing. "Guess you're coming back with me after all." The cat tries to trip her in reply.

 

* * *

 

**Elsewhere**

 

November slaps a report down on January's desk.

"Read this."

"The latest from your spy network, I take it?" January picks up the paper, glancing over it, and practically chokes at its conclusion.

"She  _ what??" _

"At least it counted as a point in our favor, this time. But honestly, what were you thinking, bringing an unknown element into the game like this? You're smarter than that. Or at least, I thought you were."

 

"Look, what do you want me to say?" January pushes his fingers through his hair in agitation. "I was distracted, and she was a nuisance, and it was that or kill her."

 

November is silent, merely watching its friend.

 

"Well, yes, of course, killing her would have been more practical, but-- she was obviously part of our season, so I went soft, alright? ...I hadn't seen one in a long time. They're all summer summer summer down there now. No one chooses the cold."

 

"It chooses them, sometimes."  November, softly.

 

"Yes, and then they sulk about it for the rest of their sorry short lives. They don't want it. She...wasn't like that."

 

November just nods, encouraging him to go on. Sensing, perhaps, that there's a rant coming on.

 

"But was she grateful? Nooooo. Far from it!"

 

"You  _ did  _ kidnap her." November, mildly.

 

"Oh, like she has anything to go back to," January snaps. "That girl has no idea how much of a favor--no, an honor I've done her, bringing her here."

 

November's eyes roll. "You let September have her."

 

"Did not."

 

"Did so. You let him have her--and she almost broke his nose."

 

"I know! I thought he'd just..." January gestures vaguely.

 

"Suck the marrow out of her and dump the shell somewhere?"

 

"I wish you wouldn't put it like that. It's crude."

 

"But true. You didn't want to get your hands dirty. What were you going to do with her in the first place?"

 

"I hadn't thought that far," January admits. "Letting September have her was--"

 

"Damage control?" November suggests. "Unplanned? Stupid?"

 

"I'll go back for her. If she doesn't punch me as a greeting."

 

"I thought you liked that sort of thing."

 

January glares sourly at his grinning friend. "We aren't talking about this." 

He passes a hand over his face, looking weary. Taking pity on him, November changes the subject.

 

"If we don't do something about December, there won't be an 'us' to talk about anything for much longer," November whispers.

 

"Do you think I don't know that? Damn her," January snarls. "Damn her to the pit for--" he can't quite bring himself, even now, to voice the end of that thought. That she's abandoned them. That he isn't a leader, but he has to be, and it's whittling away at him like frostbite.

 

"I'll fix it," he vows. "Somehow."

 

November presses its lips together in a thin line. "From your lips to Winter's ears," it says, and laughs mirthlessly.

**Author's Note:**

> Pls clap.
> 
> In all seriousness though, please let me know what you think. This is my first foray into novel-length "original fiction" and I know this won't get completed without feedback. 
> 
> Think of it as a non-monetary tip jar for my poor life choices. 
> 
> Thanks!


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